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Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass

wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver

slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama

unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick

walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No

the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.